Trying My Luck at Wiener Models

The Gate Crasher: Jul/Aug. 2012

Why weren’t my parties like this?

I felt an arm on my shoulder. “You looked bored-I am in the kitchen,” whispered a husky voice. Turning around, I caught a glimpse of two enormous chestnut eyes, before their statuesque owner straightened up and flounced off. I tore my eyes away from her wiggling butt to a pretty girl who had sat down next to me. She crossed her dainty legs and blew an exaggerated amount of cigarette smoke in my direction.

I was high up above Vienna in a huge suite of rooms used by Wiener Models at the Hilton and, boy, was it a good party. I contentedly cast my gaze to the balcony where stunning girls were hanging around in pairs preening and pouting waiting to be picked up.

“What are you doing here then?” my neighbour asked, thrusting her hefty cleavage a few inches closer.

“I’m over from London, a pal of Hugh,” I said trying to look as convincing as possible and summoning what I hoped was a super-confident, self-satisfied smirk.

“Hugh?” her sultry eyes lost their warmth as she weighed up the chances of me being a fake.

I calmly held her gaze, well-versed in how to deal with such situations.

“Oh, Hugh! I knew you would be someone cool” she rasped, crossing her legs provocatively once again. “So, are you staying around here?”

I was benefitting from the greatest gift of all: false assumptions. All these beautiful people were looking at me and thinking, ok he might be no model, but therefore he must have great connections to be here. It was the classic gatecrasher’s virtuous circle: the more people seemed to find me impressive/cool/attractive, the more everyone thought that I was fundamental to the whole party and the more they found me attractive ad infinitim.

There is always a fly in the ointment, however. This time he was called Andrew.

I was feeling particularly pleased with myself at having pulled off the number/country game. (This is where you claim telepathy is possible: You ask your neighbour to imagine a number between one and ten. Then multiply by 9, add the two new digits together, subtract 5, convert into a letter a=1, b=2 and so on, think of a country that begins with that letter… and it’s always Denmark, unless they say Moscow, when you know it’s time to move on.)

This had gone particularly well. The pretty girl with (increasingly) attractive thighs had said the correct answer, which boded well for an intelligent conversation over breakfast the next morning, although she was holding her hand to her mouth, gasping “What are you tripping on?! What are you tripping on?!” in amazement, which admittedly didn’t.

“That one works on everyone does it?” a balding, thin man said with a sneer. He had been sitting across from me, although I just hadn’t noticed him before.

“If I am very lucky, it might even work on you!’  As soon as I had said it, I knew I had committed the fatal mistake. Stuffed with hubris, imagining the girl’s thighs wrapped around me later and buoyed from the vocal plaudits from her girlfriends, I had forgotten that I was at someone else’s party.

The thin man adjusted his glasses and rearranged a strand of hair. “I’m Andrew,” he smiled though gritted teeth as he got up and excused himself.

I followed his path across the room to a dark man, and I watched their conversation and the all too predictable glances in my direction.

“Look girls I’m having a bit of a party myself next week. Why don’t you come along. Here’s my card.” I spat out as Andrew and the other man begin to make their way back to me.

It was time to eject, and quick.

The next week I did have a party. It was my party and I could be as cool at other people’s expense as I like.

Not that the models came though.

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